The Anatomy of a Poop Machine

The poop machine got to spend the weekend with us.

He thinks she is as a pillow. She thinks he is a pooper scooper.

Behold, her head.

She melts into any surface.

Ten thousand belly rubs would not satisfy her.

Such poise.

Such grace.

Compare her face to this piece of work.

We plan to own a certified poop machine of our own someday. Until that day, she gets to enjoy us on the weekends.

The Good Days

Crayons. Crayon Boxes. Fresh number two pencils, new clothes, unmarked shoes. I long for the days when I would walk into a building that smelled like these things, like school.

Another first week of school has gone by. I am an experienced first day of school-er. I've gone through 19 first days of school so, I know how it goes. These days I don't get new clothes (curse you restrictive clothes budget!) and I spend more money on textbooks than I do on candy sticks and Disney folders to hide my times tests from the wandering eyes of my peers.

Oh, and I am married now. Married and going to school. It's new.

Sort of.

In elementary school we practiced this"marriage" thing. In normal places it's called "dating," but we did not date. No sir. We were pure. Instead, a group of popular boys got together and called themselves the pirates (you know who you are). They were smart, sporty schwas buckling 6th graders who were in need of love. Consequently they each picked a girl whom they deemed their wench.

Craig was paired up with Brittany W.
Taylor chose Brittni.
Nate chose Chelsey.
Kenyn chose my best friend Karen.
Bryce chose me.

Oh elementary school. The high-life.

The Bolivian Underground

Because stepiphanie just didn't cut it anymore.